Side Effects
by cactusnell
Summary: Molly takes a sleep medication with some rather interesting results. Sherlolly. May read as confused or dubious consent.


New York was often referred to as the city that never sleeps, and Sherlock Holmes had come to the conclusion that, while London may nap occasionally, his city was certainly giving the Big Apple a run for its money. It was currently just after midnight, and the streets around him were still alive with a restless sense of wakefulness. Unlike the detective, who was looking for someplace to rest his weary head.

Sherlock had been working a case for the past seven days. While it was hardly demanding on a physical level, requiring neither fisticuffs nor exercise, it had been debilitating in its own way. When Sherlock worked a case, he required very little sleep. But when it ended, he tended to crash, and this evening he intended to crash at the closest venue available. Molly Hooper's flat. He had done so on many previous occasions, and was loathe to admit that proximity was not always the primary concern. He liked the comfort of closing a case, recounting it to his pathologist, and settling into a cozy slumber, knowing he would awaken to a good breakfast and a friendly smile. But tonight, it seemed, he was to be disappointed.

When the cab carrying the detective approached Molly's address, he was surprised to find that the street blocked. Emergency personnel were currently trying to locate and correct a gas leak in the immediate area, and residents had been evacuated to safety. Unfortunately, the evacuated area included Molly's building. so Sherlock was not going to get a good night's rest this evening. Or a hat breakfast. Or a smile. He reluctantly instructed the driver to take him to Baker Street, wondering where his pathologist was spending the evening, uneasily thinking that, unbeknownst to him, perhaps she had another male friend, with benefits, with whom she would share a flat. And a bed. Unhappily, and sleepily, he made his way home.

Sherlock made his way wearily up the seventeen steps to his flat, treading gently so as not to wake his landlady. He removed his Belstaff as soon as he entered, and headed straight for the bathroom and a hot shower, something he had neglected over the past several days of staking out his suspect. Exiting the shower with a yawn, he wrapped a towel around his waist and headed for his bed, only to discover it occupied by a sleeping pathologist, mouth agape and hair askew. He cleared his throat with what he thought to be an appropriately loud cough. No reaction. "Molly?", he said, a bit louder. Nothing. A gentle nudge on the shoulder was no more successful. It was then that he noticed the prescription bottle on his nightstand. Ambien. Molly had taken it on previous occasions, especially when he had stayed with her. It seemed his presence in her flat had caused some occasions of insomnia, for whatever reason. She had trouble sleeping when she was tense, and he supposed an unexplained gas leak with the concurrent possibility of being blown to kingdom come was enough to cause a bit of tension. Certainly as good an excuse as having the world's most irritating man bunking in with you! But there had been a couple of occasions when the sleep aid had brought on unexpected side effects. On one such occasion, Molly had sat herself down to a second dinner, at approximately three o'clock in the morning, but had no recollection of doing so in the morning. On another night, Sherlock had found her dancing to imaginary music in her sitting room. Evidently, such behavior was a not so common side effect of the medication, especially in women. Also, it was not unheard of for women to engage in sexual relations, to all appearances wide awake, but to not remember a thing in the morning. To Sherlock, this had sounded like a convenient excuse for uncharacteristic behavior but, upon investigation, he had discovered that it was a true side effect. How bizarre!

The detective soon grew tired of trying to wake the woman. What did it matter, anyway? They had shared a bed before on any number of occasions, albeit platonically. Something which Sherlock was beginning to admit, if only to himself, that he regretted. So, with a yawn and a sigh, he slipped under the covers next to the small woman, and was soon asleep, lulled by her presence, her soft breathing, and her gentle if persistent snores.

It was a couple of hours after sunrise the following morning when Sherlock, but not Molly, was awakened by the sound of footsteps approaching the bedroom door, and the creak of the door as it slowly opened. The sight which Mrs. Hudson encountered was not something she ever thought she'd see. Sherlock Holmes was lying on his back, barely covered by a sheet, with one Dr. Molly Hooper wrapped around him like a monkey gripping a tree, her hair fanned out over his chest, and her arms encircling his waist under the covers.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson. Do close your mouth, and hand me my robe!"

"G-g-good morning, Sherlock. I didn't realize you had come in! Is Molly still sleeping?", the elderly woman asked rather unnecessarily, as the younger woman was now stirring, moving her hand across her companion's chest and up through her own disheveled mop of hair. Molly then opened her eyes slowly, looked dreamily at the man lying next to her, sighed, and rested her head back on his bare chest.

"I believe she may be waking, Mrs. H. Although she does seem to be rather exhausted, and for good reason, if you know what I mean!" Sherlock managed to wink and smirk at the same time, enjoying the look of shocked disbelief on his landlady's face. At his words, Molly Hooper finally seemed to grasp her situation. She lifted the covers to look underneath, quickly discovering that while she was still clothed in a cotton nightdress, Sherlock was only loosely covered in a bath towel. She could feel the blush rising up her neck and onto her face.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing here?"

"As it is my flat, and my bedroom, and, in fact, my bed, I rather think that the answer is obvious. My only question is, why are you surprised to see me?"

"You told me you were working a case. That you didn't expect to be home until tomorrow. Or today. What day is it, anyway? Nevermind! When did you get here? And why didn't you wake me?"

"Molly, calm yourself, and think. You did wake up when I got into bed. You were very, uh, happy, to see me, as a matter of fact. Aren't you happy anymore?" Saying this, he rolled slightly onto his side, and started to nuzzle the woman's neck.

"Sherlock!"

"Molly?"

"What's going on?"

"I may well ask the same thing, Dr. Hooper. That was not the reaction I expected after last night."

"Last night? What are you talking about?"

"You know very well what I'm talking about. Last night. Our first night, so to speak, rather than our last!"

"What?!"

"Sex, Molly! Rather enjoyable, energetic, enticing, enchanting…"

"Stop!"

"SEX!"

"Are you trying to say we had sex last night, Sherlock?"

"I'm not TRYING to say it, Molly. I'm coming right out and stating it rather frankly. WE HAD SEX! Last night! Surely you're not trying to tell me that we didn't?"

"I am quite sure that I would remember if we had sex, Sherlock…"

"Yes, I'm sure I am rather memorable…" Sherlock's voice drifted off as he glanced at his nightstand, and indicated, with his beautiful blue-green eyes, the prescription bottle of Ambien. Molly followed his gaze, her eyes widening as she remembered taking the pills, and recalled her previous experiences with their unwanted side effects. "Oh god," she moaned, as she covered her eyes.

"Yes, you did rather invoke the deity a number of times last night, Molly. Rather loudly, I might add. It's a good thing Mrs. Hudson has those herbal soothers of hers!"

"Oh, shite!"

"That's a new one, though," Sherlock said with a small nod. But seeing her apparent distress, he couldn't help but ask, "Are you honestly telling me you have no recollection of our encounter, Molly?"

It was then that Molly Hooper decided to go on the offensive. "This is some kind of a sick joke, isn't it, Sherlock? You're teasing me, right? I would surely remember if we had…"

"I should hope so, Molly!" Sherlock smiled benignly. "But, remember, you did eat dinner at three o'clock in the morning, and had no recollection of that. And what about that little dancing show you put on in your sitting room, eh? And they are just the occasions which I have witnessed! How many other things have you done all on your own, eh?"

"Sherlock, really, there were reasons for those things. I ate, obviously, because I was hungry. And I danced because I was in a good mood, and needed to work off some energy…"

"And you had sex with me because you wanted me, Molly! Go one, deny it!"

But instead of answering, Molly leaped from the bed, gathered up her clothes, and headed to the bathroom for a shower. She had just over an hour to get to work. She would have to deal with the situation later, she told herself. Sherlock laid back in the bed, head resting on his arms, and chuckled. But he stayed there for only a moment or two, as his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices from the downstairs hallway.

"I don't know what to make of it, John," Mrs. Hudson was going on. "Maybe it's some sort of rebound thing, you know, since you and Mary…"

"Not gay, Mrs. H! And two years is a bit of a long time for a rebound, don't you think? Are they still up there? Do you think I should go up?"

"Go on up, luv. See what you can find out."

Sherlock wrapped his robe around himself, and exited the bedroom just as John Watson came through his front door.

"Good morning, Sherlock. So, what's new?"

"Please, John, don't try to be subtle. It doesn't suit you. I already know that Mrs. Hudson has filled you in on what happened…"

"Or didn't happen…" Molly called from the other room.

"...last night!"

"Yes, well,,what did. or didn't, happen, Sherlock?"

"Molly and I have finally consummated our relationship…"

"What relationship?" The question came both from the chair which John occupied in the sitting room, and through the open door of the bath, where Molly Hooper was currently performing the finishing touches of her preparations for the day. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes.

"Molly and I had sex. Rather extraordinary sex, I might add!" The detective had raised his voice for the benefit of the woman in the other room. "And now she is trying to deny the whole thing, using her sleeping pills as an excuse for…"

"Sleeping pills?" The doctor is John Watson had picked up on the circumstances. "What type of sleeping pills?"

"Ambien, John."

"AHHH!," John muttered. "You do know, Sherlock, that it is entirely possible that she doesn't remember a thing about last night. It's not a common side effect, but it does happen…"

"Or, the git could be making the whole thing up as some sort of practical joke!", Molly said, pulling on her coat as she stalked from the bathroom to the front door. John Watson looked at his best friend, saw the smirking smile playing across his face, and decided that either case was a distinct possibility. And that he was certainly going to stay out of it! But if Molly Hooper was having such a decided reaction to the sleeping aid, he was, indeed, grateful that her patients were beyond caring!

"So, Sherlock," John spoke as soon as Molly had exited. "Want to tell me about it?"

"Do I strike you as the type to share intimate details about a woman for whom I care, John? I know you have regaled me with intimate details about your previous liaisons, but you do seem loathe to share anything about your sex life with your wife, after all…"

"Well, there is this little thing she…"

"Believe me when I say this, John, but the phrase 'little thing' is in no way relevant to my…"

"Okay! Okay! Point taken! No more discussion."

The question of "did they or didn't they" was relegated to the back burner for a few days by Molly's busy schedule, and Sherlock's acquiring of a case, which turned out to be only a four, but did keep him occupied for a brief period of time. But Molly was reminded of the situation when Greg Lestrade put in an appearance in her morgue, collecting a report on a body found a few days earlier. But his interest seemed not on the report, but on the pathologist.

"So, Molly, what's new?" The tone in his voice must have given him away.

"So, Greg, who have you been talking to? John? Or Sherlock?"

"John, of course. All Sherlock does is smirk."

"My god, and they say women are gossips! So, what's the story? Does John believe Sherlock, or me?"

"He's pretty much up in the air about the whole thing, Molls. And Sherlock's not saying anything at this point. So, what's the deal?"

A thought was forming somewhere in Molly's desperate mind. "Look, Greg, if he claims he had sex with me while I was under the influence, that could be illegal, couldn't it?"

The Inspector looked worried. "You want to press charges, Molly? I mean, that would be hard to prove. He didn't give you the drug, after all. And any evidence…"

"No! No! of course not! No charges! But couldn't you put the fear of God in him, Greg? Maybe a threat or two?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Molly, I'd like to help, but I think God may be more afraid of Sherlock than vice versa, if you know what I mean."

"I know. But I just want him to shut up about it. He's carrying his little joke a bit too far…"

"If it is a joke, Molls…"

"Of course it it, Greg! I would remember, I tell you, if…"

"Sorry, Molly, but I don't want to hear any more. Too much information, okay?"

For the next several days, nothing more was said, but the pathologist could tell from the attitudes of those around her that several people were privy to her situation. Mike Stamford looked at her sideways, sometimes suppressing a giggle in a very unmanly fashion. Mrs. Hudson, when Molly visited Baker Street to collect some used experimental tissue for disposal, had patted her hand gently, and asked how she was holding up. Sherlock himself, on the rare occasions when she had seen him during the last eight or nine days, had taken to speaking in seductive tones, even when describing exit wounds and bruising patterns. And he smirked. A lot. Molly found herself glancing furtively at his hands, his cheekbones, his wonderful eyes, and trying to remember. Anything. Had those hands caressed her tenderly? Had her thumbs gently glided over those cheekbones? Had those eyes been blown wide with passion? At anytime other than in her dreams? Of course not! Surely she would remember!

Sunday was the tenth day after their supposed encounter, and Molly had accepted an invitation to the Watson flat for dinner. This was not unusual, as she and Mary had grown quite close, and Molly simply adored the Watson's toddler daughter, Claire. The only problem was that Sherlock Holmes, the child's godfather, was often at these dinners as well, and Molly was just about at the breaking point when it came to his smirking innuendos.

Molly arrived early that Sunday, as Mary seemed to have her hands perpetually full with a young child and a big meal to prepare, and always appreciated help with either. But when Molly arrived, it was not assistance Mary was looking for. But gossip. And information.

"So, give. Did you, or didn't you? I want to hear it straight from the horse's mouth!"

"No! Of course not!" But Mary could hear the hesitation in the pathologist's voice. "Maybe? Oh, how the bloody hell should I know? I really don't think I could not remember something so…"

"Yeah, I know…"

"I mean, after all this time…"

"It has been quite a while, hasn't it, Molls?" Mary spoke gently, and Molly knew exactly what she meant. Molly Hooper had carried a torch for the brilliant, lovely, and thoroughly insufferable detective for over seven years, even longer than she had known Mary Watson.

"If it didn't happen, he's just playing a mean prank. And if it did happen, the universe is playing the prank! After all these years, and I don't remember a thing? How cruel can fate be, Mary?" But when Molly looked at her friend, she saw, along with sympathy, the flash of an idea. Mary was up to something.

"Molly, I've got an idea! Tell him you're pregnant! It's been just long enough for a pregnancy test to confirm your condition. If he denies that it's possible, you'll know he's been joking. But if he takes responsibility, you'll know, well, that something did happen…."

"Brilliant, Mary. Just one problem. What is he demands proof,eh?"

"Don't you worry, luv. I've got that covered!" The women could now hear voices in the hallway outside the door to the flat, and knew that John, and Sherlock, would soon make their way in. Mary grabbed Molly, shoved her into the bathroom, saying, "I just peed on a stick this morning, Molls. Positive. I haven't told John yet, so I hid it in the medicine cabinet. Just play it up good when you make the announcement, okay? I can't wait to see his face!"

Sherlock had dumped his coat onto the couch and settled in. "Hasn't Molly arrived yet? I'm looking forward to seeing her."

"Leave the poor woman alone, Sherlock. Stop teasing her!" John spoke sharply.

"Have you come over to her side, then, John? Do you really believe I'm just teasing her?"

"I know you're enjoying the whole situation, Sherlock…"

"Not as much as I enjoyed the other night, but…"

"Oh, shut up, Sherlock. Molly is in the bathroom. She seemed quite upset when she arrived, and went right in there, so please, no drama today, okay…" Mary was interrupted by the sound of the bathroom door opening, as everybody turned to greet the newest arrival.

"Hello, Molly, you look lovely today. Not quite as lovely as the other…" But the detective stopped in mid jibe as he took in the small woman's demeanor. "Molly, what's wrong?" He did have the good grace to blanch a bit as Molly Hooper held up the plastic implement indicating a positive pregnancy result.

"I'm pregnant, Sherlock. What do you have to say about that?"

Mary Watson covered her mouth to hide her smile. John Watson stood there, mouth agape. Molly was staring up at the man she loved more than anything in the world, and trying to figure out what he would do next. What he did was take her in his arms and crush her to his chest. Then he took out his mobile and texted his mother.

YOU CAN STOP NAGGING NOW. FIRST OF SEVERAL GRANDCHILDREN IS ON THE WAY - SHERLOCK

WHERE IS MY SON AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HIM? - VIOLET HOLMES

WILL EXPLAIN LATER - SHERLOCK

"Sherlock! You shouldn't have done that!" Molly was now beside herself. This was not going according to plan. He should have been flustered that his prank had finally been exposed. He shouldn't be proudly proclaiming paternity! Unless? Oh, God! Had they really?

"You played that brilliantly, Molly," Sherlock said into her ear. "But I believe I have trumped you! Did you expect me to deny everything, and run for cover?"

Molly was now losing it. Tears had begun to fall, and she wasn't quite sure why. Was she crying because it now seemed that that had, indeed, gotten to know one another, in the biblical sense, and she didn't remember a damned thing about it? Or because she had lied to him about being pregnant? Or because he had so happily informed his mother, the rather formidable Violet Holmes? Oh god, what was she going to do now?

Sherlock kissed her on her forehead, never letting go. "John, Mary, you'll have to excuse us, but we have to get home to start working on that grandchild I just promised my mother. She is certainly not the kind of woman one wishes to disappoint!"

Molly let out a huff of air. "You know! You know I'm not pregnant!", she said a bit angrily. "Because we never had sex. This has all been just a prank. A practical joke! You insufferable…"

"Now, Molly, calm down. I know you're not pregnant because I know your monthly cycle as well as I know everything else about you. You don't think it's a coincidence how I avoid St. Bart's on certain days, do you?" He now looked over at his best friend, who was still struggling to make sense of the whole thing. "John, you would do well to do the same with your wife. It may save you sleeping on the couch as you did for two days last month! Or, possibly, a bullet in your liver on some future occasion!" His eyes returned to the woman he still held in his arms. "And because I know your cycle so well, I am aware that now is the perfect time to start working on the problem caused by mother's expectations. Shall we?"

But before he led her to the door, he snaked his arms around her, pulled her as close as humanly possible, and kissed her with a passion she had only imagined in her dreams. She was still gazing up at him as he spoke to his friend. "John, since Molly is not, as yet, in a, shall we say, delicate condition, perhaps you should consider the source of the positive pregnancy test?"

And as he helped Molly with her coat, her mind keep returning to the same question. Surely she would remember if he had kissed her like that before? With such passion? Such desire? Wouldn't she? But when he grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the door, she found she didn't really care. There would be so many more occasions to remember. Perhaps she could spend the next fifty or sixty years trying to figure it out?

As the door closed behind the pair, a voice could be heard muttering, "Bloody wanker! Knew it before I did! Again!"


End file.
